


Early Days

by arden_scott



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Intergluteal Sex, M/M, Morning After, Morning Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rutting, Sherlock's Lil Peen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 16:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arden_scott/pseuds/arden_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There seems to be an unspoken agreement of partnership, of monogamy and commitment and if not quite yet love, then something rapidly approaching it. But they’ve only just begun this relationship, and they are both still carefully picking their way through it, and John truly believes he could do this for ages, just lie in bed tangled with Sherlock, kissing him and kissing him.<br/>And naturally, Sherlock, beautiful, wonderful Sherlock, as is his wont, turns things topsy-turvy. Literally.</p><p> </p><p>Early morning sex the morning after their first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Early Days

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rather Intense](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/97997) by DuoD. 



> Definitely check out DuoD's artwork, linked above. It's beautiful [and nsfw ;)]

It’s just after six when John first stirs, slowly gaining consciousness with a long, whistling inhale. He luxuriates in this feeling of drowsy contentment, of being warm and cosy and knowing he doesn’t have to get up for work today, knowing that he could spend all day in this bed if he really wanted to. The thought makes him smile.

It is still quite dark when he opens his eyes, and it takes a moment for him to adjust. When he does, though, his smile broadens, and something warm blooms in his chest. All he can see of Sherlock is a puff of dark hair; the rest of the long, slender body John knows is there is bundled under his duvet. But he is there all the same, fast asleep in John’s bed, and it fills John with an overwhelming sense of _rightness,_ as though this is exactly where they should be, as though it’s right where they belong. He’s a very practical man, one who doesn’t give much thought to fate or destiny or what have you, but in that moment he is convinced that this was meant to happen, and if it sounds a bit silly or fanciful, well, he can’t really be arsed to care; he is too full of light.

The duvet rises and falls with each measured breath Sherlock takes, the sound soft and whispery, and suddenly John wants to see what Sherlock looks like when he sleeps. John slips across the bed, closing the meagre space between the two until he is practically touching the man. He raises himself up on an elbow and carefully reaches out, lifting the duvet away from Sherlock’s face. His skin is fair, almost pearly in the wan light that seeps through the curtains. In comparison his hair is almost startling dark, his lashes sooty shadows dusting sharp cheekbones. His mouth is lush and slack in sleep, a dramatic cupid’s bow that John wants to trace with his own tongue, and this is where John gets sidetracked, thinking about that mouth and how it tasted the first time he kissed it just last night, how it felt sucking bruises on John’s neck, how it parted in surprised ecstasy as Sherlock orgasmed at John’s hand.

It is only when that mouth quirks a small smile that John realises Sherlock has awoken. A pair of eyes, viridian this morning, stare up at him, sleep-soft and thoughtful.

“Good morning,” John murmurs, and his voice is thick and gravelly with sleep. He clears his throat and tries again. “Did I wake you?”

Sherlock blinks slowly, as though trying to parse out the meaning of John’s words, then nods his head, curls rasping softly against the pillow. “Mm, yes,” he mumbles. He sounds just as bleary as John, and it’s possibly the sweetest thing John as ever heard. “But I shouldn’t sleep so long, anyway. Ruins the system.”

John huffs an exasperated breath of laughter and lays a light kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. He lowers himself back down on the bed and slings an arm over Sherlock’s side, pulling him closer and inhaling deeply. Sherlock smells like sweat and sex and phenoxyethanol and that posh shampoo he claims isn’t his. Closing his eyes, John settles in for a good cuddle, maybe even a chance to sleep a bit more. Outside, hissing rain muffles the sound of early morning traffic, and the draughty old building creaks in time with the gusts of biting October wind. But inside it is warm and dry, a veritable sanctuary. His cock is half-hard, as it often is in the mornings, but John is entirely comfortable with ignoring it for the time being.

Until, that is, Sherlock wriggles against John, and the erection pressed against Sherlock’s belly suddenly and intensely realises it doesn’t want to be ignored any longer. A grunt forces its way out of John’s mouth before he can stop it, and another, louder this time, follows it when Sherlock moves again.

“What are you— _oh…_ ” The question trails off into a soft moan as Sherlock shifts a third time and presses his own stiff cock against John’s thigh. He cranes his neck back and looks at the doctor, eyes wide with lust and more than a bit of nerves.

“I...” He stops and catches his lip between his teeth, looking young and lost and vulnerable, a heart-breaking display of his inexperience and fears. “Is this...okay?”

John’s heart shatters a bit at this, at the thought of the Great Sherlock Holmes, World’s Only Consulting Detective, his Sherlock, feeling inadequate. If John never sees that expression on the younger man’s face again it will be too soon.

“Yes,” John whispers, kissing Sherlock’s forehead. “God, yes, everything is okay, Sherlock. Whatever you want.”

Sherlock stretches and presses his lips to John’s, a light, chaste kiss. “You. I want you.”

A shiver crawls down John’s spine, and he moans in delight. Surging closer he captures Sherlock’s mouth, licking at the seam of his closed lips until they open, and he twines his tongue with Sherlock’s. It is hot and wet and a little sloppy, Sherlock’s inexperience showing as he tries so desperately to keep up. His lips move over John’s quickly, a bit too quickly, and there’s a moment when Sherlock presses closer still and clacks his teeth against John’s. But John cups his hand around Sherlock’s jaw, tilts his head _just so,_ and suddenly they are moving together flawlessly, a slick glide of lips and tentative tangling of tongues. It’s slow and filthy and tastes like sour sleep breath and want, and John thinks his heart is going to beat right out of his chest or simply just burst with the utter perfection of this kiss.

A large hand, delicate and startlingly hot, lands on his arse, pulling him closer, tighter. Sherlock need something, needs _him_ , that much is certain. Somewhere high in his throat, Sherlock moans, throwing a leg over John’s hip and bringing himself closer. Their bodies have grown heated and dewy with perspiration, breath humid when they part for air. John ducks his head and mouths at Sherlock’s neck, nibbling at his collarbones, sucking at his pulse, licking at the sweat pooling in his suprasternal notch. Sherlock throws his head back, eyes squeezed tight under the onslaught. His whimpers vibrate under John’s tongue.

Meanwhile John’s cock has surged back to full hardness and is rubbing against Sherlock’s soft belly, leaving sticky trails of precome over his pale skin. Arousal simmers low in his gut, present but not overwhelming, even as Sherlock rubs and pinches at his nipples. He’s content to keep at this pace for a while, to take things slow. There seems to be an unspoken agreement of partnership, of monogamy and commitment and if not quite yet love, then something rapidly approaching it. But they’ve only just begun this relationship, and they are both still carefully picking their way through it, and John truly believes he could do this for ages, just lie in bed tangled with Sherlock, kissing him and kissing him.

And naturally, Sherlock, beautiful, wonderful Sherlock, as is his wont, turns things topsy-turvy. Literally.

With a quick move John could have hardly anticipated, Sherlock rolls the both of them so that John ends up flat on his back with an unusually shy-looking consulting detective straddling his chest. The manoeuvre shakes a laugh out of John, a high-pitched giggle that breaks the heavy silence hanging over the room.

The sound must startle Sherlock, because he jolts, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. There is still a shred of uncertainty in Sherlock, the barest glimpse of bewilderment, but John just chuckles again, softer this time, and pulls the silly man down for a kiss.

“You can laugh during sex,” he mumbles against Sherlock’s lips. “It’s not always so serious; you’re allowed to have fun with it.”

The tiniest, softest smile breaks on Sherlock’s face, eyes crinkling at the corners. He nods and presses a gentle kiss to John’s lips, skimming his fingers over the gnarled scar and the lightly furred skin of John’s chest. The doctor wraps his arms around Sherlock, palms smoothing down his back as he kisses back. Sherlock’s skin is satiny and warm, blooming with gooseflesh as John’s hands glide over his arse. John doesn’t linger, moving slowly but surely to brush his fingers over the rest of Sherlock that he can reach—shoulders, neck, sides, tracing the sturdy bones beneath the lean muscle. He follows the curve of his spine until it dips into the cleft of his bum, and suddenly this kiss shifts into something utterly pornographic. Sherlock’s lips move faster, harder, deeper, hungry, until he’s trembling and desperate and it’s all John can do to keep up. There’s a flurry of movement as Sherlock plants his hands on either side of John’s shoulders before he pushes himself away to suck in a lungful of air, chest heaving.

 _“John,”_ he gasps, head hanging between his shoulders as he struggles to get his brain back. His cock is hard; it bobs rosy and plump against his belly.

“What do you need?” John asks, rubbing his hand over Sherlock’s thigh as though gentling a skittish horse. “Anything you want, anything at all—”

_“More.”_

“Oh, jesus, yes,” John groans, hand tightening on Sherlock’s leg. He settles his feet flat on the bed, knees raised for stability. “How do you want it? I don’t think I have the patience to prep you right now, and you’re probably still a bit sore anyway…but I can suck you, if you want. Do you want me to suck your cock, love?”

“ _Ngh,_ no, no, I— I wouldn’t last. Your hand, please. I want your hand, that’s all.”

“Yeah, okay. Okay,” John repeats, breathless, nodding his head as if to shake his senses back in order. He looks around confusedly for a moment until he remembers how he blindly threw the bottle of lube away from the bed last night, uncaring of where it landed. It could be just under the bed or all the way across the room; either way, it is not within reaching distance, and they’ll just have to make do.

“Lick,” John says gruffly, offering his free hand. “Get it nice and wet.” Sherlock blinks at him for a moment before wrapping his slender fingers around John’s wrist and tugging his hand closer, laving broad, wet stripes over John’s palm. He takes each of John’s fingers in his mouth, sucking them down to the knuckle, eyes never breaking contact with John’s. It’s one of the filthiest things John has ever seen, and he forces himself to pull his hand away before things end too quickly.

With all the caution he can manage, John strokes a single finger up Sherlock’s cock, root to tip. He does this, again and again, revelling in the soft, delicate skin ridged with veins, until Sherlock’s entire frame is trembling and his cock is smudging precome into his skin.

 _“John,”_ he whines, “Stop teasing!”

John caresses Sherlock’s prick once more, biting down on a grin at the undignified squeak the detective makes. Then he reaches out, the breadth of his hand easily covering the modest length of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock lets out the most lovely moan, straightening up into a sitting position with an abrupt jerk, head thrown back to expose his kiss-bruised neck.

“That’s it,” John whispers, his strokes slow and loose, catching Sherlock’s foreskin on each down-pull. “Is this all right? Does this feel good?”

His questions are met with a vague sort of gurgling groan, muffled behind a bitten lip. “Yes, John...oh, god, more, please!”

John runs his thumb over the head, spreading the fluid over Sherlock’s cock, slicking his strokes further. He experiments with the length and speed of his strokes, long, short, fast, slow, every combination he can think of. This was always his favourite part of sex with new partner, figuring out what they liked and how they liked it, and if the sounds Sherlock has been making are anything to go by, Sherlock likes just about everything John has given him.

A high whine rises from Sherlock’s throat as John’s finger rubs at his fraenulum, the muscles of his stomach tightening as John keeps up the stimulation.

“Mmm, so pretty, Sherlock.” And he is, god, he is; he is _beautiful—_ his hair a soft halo wild above his head, cheeks stained pink, eyes glassy, lips kiss-swollen. “You look so lovely like this, all desperate and needy. Fuck, you make me so hard.”

John isn’t lying; his own cock is swollen and red, lying untouched against his belly. The urge to come is getting stronger now, every whimper and bitten lip from Sherlock ratcheting his arousal up another notch. But it’s not so strong that he can’t push it to the side; he remains determined to make this good for Sherlock.

John makes a circle with his forefinger and thumb around Sherlock’s cock and pulls, tight and slow, with a twist at the end that forces a choked _“fuck!”_ from the detective. He tugs and twists again, faster, and again, faster still, until there’s no stopping between strokes. Sherlock’s hips start to twitch, sharp, abortive thrusts into John’s hand as he seeks for more, a constant keen pouring from between his parted lips. His chest is heaving as though he’s run a marathon, sweat beading on his flushed face, dripping down his neck.

“You can—you can—” Sherlock pants, but he can’t seem to get the rest of it out. Instead, he gives a full-body wriggle, and suddenly John clues in.

Grasping Sherlock’s hips, he shoves him back until Sherlock’s back rests against John’s thighs. He reaches under, spreads Sherlock’s arse, and then jerks up once, hard, his cock rubbing perfectly between Sherlock’s cheeks. The detective’s skin is slick with sweat and maybe even a little leftover lube, and John is more than a bit wet himself, precome oozing in a steady stream from his slit.

 _“Jesus,”_ John slurs. This first touch to his cock electric, and for a moment John thinks he might go off right then. His body burns at every point of contact with Sherlock, heat coalescing in his groin. He reigns it in with a thought of the vegetable crisper, which definitely does not contain vegetables and has not for a long time.

Sherlock hovers over John, hands still firmly planted on the bed, back a straight, taut line. His arms are shaking ever so slightly, and a rosy flush is spreading down his chest.

“Please, John,” he rasps. “Don’t stop.”

The doctor blinks, and then scrambles to comply, taking Sherlock’s cock fully in his grasp. The delicate skin is soft and slick, blood-hot and so, so hard.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” John asks, because damn it all, he wants to hear it, wants to hear the man beg for release in that smoked honey voice.

He delivers beautifully.

“Oh, god, John, p—please! Make me come, I wanna come,” Sherlock whines, high and hoarse. “I need it, need you, I mean it! Please, John, please—”

The rest of his words are lost in a sharp yelp Sherlock will later deny as John sets a punishing pace, pumping Sherlock’s cock with frantic speed. The wet slapping sound underlaid with Sherlock’s soft whimpers and John’s harsh pants is obscene in the early morning quiet; it only serves to amplify John’s arousal. He thrusts up hard against Sherlock, a tight, hot slide between the luscious mounds of his arse, the head of his cock rubbing with tantalizing closeness against Sherlock’s puckered hole. Sherlock flexes his hips in return, tightening his muscles around John.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock,” John grunts, fingers tightening on Sherlock’s thigh. “You feel so good, so good— _hngh—_ ”

“John, I’m almost there, I’m almost—” Sherlock’s head falls forward between his shoulders again, sweat-damp fringe hanging over his face, a drop of perspiration hanging on the tip of his nose. His cock is thickening in John’s hand, entire body trembling with strain and desperate arousal. “Oh, god, John, John, John, _Joh—”_

He comes, brows, eyes, and nose scrunched tight, mouth gaping in a soundless howl. Thick semen pools on John’s belly, and it’s the hottest thing John has ever seen, Sherlock Holmes shaking to pieces in his arms as John palms him through his orgasm.

John’s own cock is growing harder, balls drawing up tight against his body in anticipation. He continues to rut against Sherlock’s arse but it’s not enough; he’s on the edge but he can’t quite make it over. Sliding his hands across Sherlock’s sticky skin, he grasps the detective’s sharp hipbones and _pulls_. He bucks up at the same time, hard, and it is perfect.

“Yes, John, come on, come. Come on me. Come for me, John.” Sherlock twists his hips as he whispers, inadvertently rubbing the sensitive head of John’s cock just the right way as the doctor fucks up against his arse. The motion is devastating in its conclusion—a sharp cry cracks in John’s throat as he comes, pulsing hard against Sherlock’s skin as Sherlock grinds down against him.

 _“Ahh,...ahh, god,”_ he groans, holding Sherlock still by his hips as he moves in shivery little thrusts until his cock becomes too sensitive. He exhales a slow breath, revelling in the sparks tingling under his skin. Above him, Sherlock looks dazed, almost like he’s been hit on the head _(almost, but not quite—John has seen Sherlock after being hit on the head, and the look on his face then was a lot less awe-inspired and a lot more indignant)._

“God, you’re amazing,” John whispers, gathering a very pliant Sherlock close to his chest, heedless of the mess. “The most incredible, amazing thing, Sherlock. Just stunning.”

He drops kisses to every inch of Sherlock he can find, and Sherlock responds in kind, pressing his lips clumsily against John’s.

“I’ll be right back,” John mumbles, gently tipping Sherlock off and clambering out of the bed. He’s careful not drip come on his sheets or floor as he makes his way to the loo, where he grabs a flannel and runs it under the water before wiping himself down. When he comes back to his room, fresh flannel in hand, Sherlock is just where he left him, sprawled across the mattress. He somehow manages to look as ethereal as he always does, even with globules of come streaking his pink-flushed chest and mussed up hair flopping over his face.

 _I love you,_ John wants to say but doesn’t, because even though it’s truest thing he’s ever known, it’s early days yet, and he doesn’t want to scare Sherlock off. But he still thinks it.

The bed creaks and dips as John crawls back on, but Sherlock does nothing. Only when the warm flannel touches his skin does he open his eyes, with a gentle smile that turns into a hastily bitten lip as John carefully drags the cloth between the cheeks of his arse.

“There. All clean.” John tosses the used flannel in the direction of the laundry basket and lies back down, one arm folded behind his head. With his free hand, he draws Sherlock closer until the younger man is laid atop him, head resting over his heart, legs tangled. John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s matted curls, humming softly when Sherlock presses light kisses to his chest.

They don’t need words right now, no sweet nothings, no pillow talk. The hazy afterglow leaves John perfectly content to cuddle quietly with his lover; Sherlock is likely just too tired to bother. But it works, and it’s lovely, and he is more than happy to just let it be and live in this hushed moment.

 _Yes_ , John thinks as he listens to the tidal whisper of Sherlock’s breath as it evens out toward sleep, _this is right where we’re meant to be._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, lovelies <3 Feel free to join me at arden-scott.tumblr.com for more Sherlock stuff!


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